My Happy Place - Palos Verdes, as Promised.

Sometimes Words Aren't Enough

I'm wise to the notion that my Eastern-European co-worker may have a better grasp on the English language than he lets on - he is just secretly charmed and delighted by American attempts at translation when words fail them. I can see him chuckle to himself as we begin to describe things with sign language, as if wild hand (or whatever body part we're utilizing in expression) motioning can assist us in more accurately explaining our point.

I consider communication to be one of my best qualities. My friends, acquaintances, and cohorts are generally well-informed of my daily life situations. Then again, I've got an affinity for trashy gossip and I tend to babble at great length over subject matter that is relevant to nothing. Which I why I have a blog. Look, I'm doing it again!

Anyway.  As my nature would suggest, I often become impatient and frustrated when I am unable to convey myself with ease. What! You don't understand me? Well fuck this. You don't deserve an explanation.  This perspective, however, is usually disregarded when mingling with foreigners.  If I can't come up with a series of adjectives they recognize, I will resort to uncouth  gesticulation. Such were the circumstances today as I described to my co-worker the Lucha Va Voom.  For those who are unaware of this happening;

Sexo Y Violencia

...that should clear things up completely.

The first word to perplex him was "burlesque."   'I do not know this,' he insisted.  His blank stare mandated that I further clarify.  "Burlesque dancers are kind of like stripper girls..." I began; only to have my foreign friend excitably interject, 'SO, they take off ALL THEIR CLOTHES?!  They were...naked girls??' 

"No.  They still wear g-strings and pantyhose and pasties.  So they are somewhat covered."

More blank stare.  He shook his head as he envisioned the wardrobe he had deciphered, and then cautiously disputed me.

 '...Pastries!...??'

"No, not PASTRIES.  Payy-steeeeeeees.  Pasties."  I wasn't getting through.  And there he stood, in amused anticipation,  silently suggesting, "now you have to show me. These...what you call?  Pasties."

Okay fine.  I drew my fists to my chest, hovered over my boobs, and quickly flashed open palms at him.  Only after repeating this action three times did I realize I wasn't accurately getting the message across.  In fact, I seemed to be relating breasts to car headlights beaming on and off.  He was understandably confused.

My second approach was to pinch my thumb and forefinger together, creating a circular imitation.  I then made a half-twisting motion above my nipples.  Really, I was tweaking my nipples in sign, without the actual tweakage.  His eyes big as two suns and burning just as bright, I had to quickly revert back to language. "Pasties.  Like little cups!  To cover you!"  For a brief moment, I felt very dirty.

He smiled.  "Ahhhh."  Comprehension.  I achieved my goal.

"So.  Why did you not just Google 'pasties' for me to see?"

You fucking! Damn!! Son of a BITCH.  I couldn't image-search 'pasties', BECAUSE THAT IS TOO LOGICAL.  And in doing so, I don't have the opportunity to embarrass myself enough.  This is why I resorted to hand gestures.  My words alone were not terribly mortifying, and needed a little action in accompaniment.  That, and fuck you.  

You understand.

Still Awful and Fear-Inspiring, Yet Fun and Perky

The highlight of my day was undoubtedly the moment my iPod shuffled to The Macarena by Los del Rio during the bus ride home.  I could barely contain my excitement as I fumbled with the volume roller to pump that baby up FULL BLAST.  Little did I know that as I amplified the song, a faint leak of obnoxious dance tempo had penetrated the listening realm of the stinking, shabby, possibly homeless Hispanic woman sitting next to me.  I could feel her stare and noticed peripherally that her neck was craned and her face turned in my general direction.  I met her stare and cracked an uneasy smile -  and then the chorus hit me.

Heeeeeey Mac-arena!  Ayyy!   and then, something in Spanish.  Repeat, repeat.

I saw the woman's nostrils flare.  She got up and moved to a seat in the back...because I had inadvertently uttered the lyrics charging through my brain.  Including the Spanish part.  I don't know the Spanish part.  And I don't speak Spanish.  But I still tried to sing it, and I managed to cause a bum so much anxiety that she was all like, I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM YOU, CRAZY PERSON.

God knows what I actually said in Spanish, or if it was Spanish at all.  It might have been devil speak.  At any rate, the woman continued to stare at me for the next ten minutes.

On a vaguely related note, this event reminds me of the instant during 6th grade summer camp when the entire girls' cabin realized that one of the male camp counselors, named Oliver, could sing The Macarena in its entirety.  Including the Spanish part.  And since I grew up in Erie, PA, dear GOD was this ever momentous.  NOBODY speaks Spanish!  Holy fuck!  Sing it again, Oliver!  DO IT, or I will shoot you with this arrow; as you've just taught me the proper techniques of archery.  And might I remind you, I just got 5 bulls-eyes out of 7 shots.  IT IS MACARENA TIME, ONCE AGAIN.  HAHAHA!

I'm only speculating, but I may have somehow conveyed the same sense of wild-eyed urgency today as I insisted, "Parala pa lady elegria Macarena" or whatever, to that woman on the bus.  But at least I was not in possession of any obvious form of weaponry, or making flagrant threats for that matter.  I hate to think that my personal killing-spree theme song could one day be The Macarena.

The Only Time I Welcome an Emotional Beating

...when astonishingly good advice is the succession of the act(s) and/or state of things.

"Never make someone a priority who only considers you an option." - Augustine Mandino

Enough said.

Warning Signs

Eight months ago, I moved to the second-most populated metropolis in America - Los Angeles.  Since then, I've been plagued and threatened incessantly by the very thing I thought I'd escape by relocating here -  Nature.  Inauspicious nature.  WILDERNESS WANTS TO KILL ME, even in the big city.  Some examples include:

Shark's tooth found at Redondo Beach.  This didn't initially seem ominous - but then I blithely revealed my discovery to some locals.  They all seemed uneasy, and all claimed, "WOW.  I've lived here - 10 /15/ 20 - years, and I've never found one of those at any beach in SoCal!"  Oh great.  Do I go in the water?  Or do I float a sacrificial dummy with my likeness out there first? 

Snake in Palos Verdes - thankfully, this fellow was not of the poisonous / deadly variety, but again, associate reaction to this photo has ranged from, "I would fucking shit myself if I saw that," to, "RATTLESNAKES LIVE THERE TOO AND THEY HAVE THE ABILITY TO VAULT THEMSELVES AT YOU FROM 12 FEET AWAY.  You don't want a flying snake hitting you like an Amazonian blow dart, do you?!!?"

And, the kicker -

RIGHT IN MY OWN BACKYARD.  I think we can all agree - this squirrel has a ravenous, compulsory longing for human blood.  It just kept staring at me like that. What the...??  Squirrels are supposed to be hypersonic spazz rats with a volcanic glee for tree nuts and bird feed houses.  And when they do get mad or territorial for a brief moment, it always ends up on YouTube.  Because there is no fight in the entire animal kingdom more comical than a boxing squirrel death match.  Unless it includes the squirrel pictured above.  I don't think I could win a fight against that thing if you armed me with a sledgehammer and a can of mace.  

Take a Look at Perfection

...And by "perfection," I don't mean the questionable days'-old stain on my countertop.  Meet my Mango-Orange-Tangerine Margarita. 

 

No umbrellas or plastic mermaids here, cuzzz'n. Like every professional, I kill my tequila using the same cup as my morning coffee, and, if I'm lucky, with my morning coffee.

Palos Verdes Peninsula

This past weekend I made my way to the Palos Verdes Peninsula.
























More pictures to come, but notice the very upwards angle of this cliff. Naturally, I refused to venture too close to this rocky crag. Reasoning - I grew up in Pennsylvania. In PA, it is implicitly known that you've got a 32% chance of dying by way of A.) deer majestically leaping into your windshield, or B.) a giant slab of Appalachia coming loose and decimating you and your vehicle.

At least Pennsylvania warns its residents of this hazard with yellow reflective "FALLING ROCK" signs every 15 feet. California will caution you relentlessly over the perils of rollerblading, skateboarding, and amalgam dental fillings, but somehow menacingly large cliffs pose no imaginable threat.